


Artfully Afflicted

by crookedspoon



Series: Inked & Bloody: Remix 'verse [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Artists, Barebacking, Breathplay, Deepthroating, Infidelity, Light Bondage, M/M, No Lube, Piercings, Porn Battle, References to Drugs, Rimming, Shower Sex, Stream of Consciousness, Tattoo!lock, Tattoos, Teasing, Trope Bingo Round 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:48:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another job offer, that's all he comes for. It's Sherlock he's dealing with, though – he should have known to cancel his appointments beforehand.</p><p>  <i>His brother’s love for body modification is atrocious and repelling at best, but Mycroft can’t deny the eroticism of a pierced tongue.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All I Want Is Strictly Earthly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Neurotoxia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neurotoxia/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Skin-Deep](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110817) by [Neurotoxia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neurotoxia/pseuds/Neurotoxia). 



> A thousand thank yous and then some to the amazing Neurotoxia for her wonderful Tattoo!lock AU and for allowing me to play with it. The details presented herein are all approved by her and are canon in her 'verse. (Except for the sleeping with Mycroft bit, that's just my take, ahem. ~~Or is it?~~ )
> 
> Written for the prompts _Sherlock (TV), Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes, brother dear, mine, obey, understanding, disappointed, advantage, practice, limits, cocaine._ from [Porn Battle XV](http://battle.oxoniensis.org/); Feb 14, 2014 _"digits dextrous with practice"_ from [31_days](31-days.dreamwidth.org) and "power dynamics" from trope_bingo [Round 3](http://crookedspoon.dreamwidth.org/132192.html#cutid2).

Don't mean to freak you out  
But I'm painting pictures  
Memories we'll have someday  
(...)  
Compared to what you do to me  
I am just a raging sea  


—Abandoned Pools, "9 Billion"

**London, 2005**

Every time Mycroft enters his brother's flat in Montague St, he half-expects paint to hit him, either flung by Sherlock’s precise brush or a contraption specially designed to keep out intruders, or dripping from the ceiling. Sherlock mentioned boredom driving him ‘up a wall’ on occasion, so it wouldn’t be surprising, but then again, nothing about his brother surprises Mycroft much – disconcert, yes, but not surprise.

Mycroft has barely opened the door that a waft of turpentine vapours irritates his eyes. Sherlock, of course, may be used to it by now, but painting in an airless flat, without proper ventilation, is unacceptable. And beyond that, contaminating his works with tobacco fumes... Mycroft is accumulating item after item for his list of _Exasperating Things Sherlock Does_.

The state of Sherlock’s flat is a minefield, as usual, but the chaos is only superficial. Mycroft sees the golden ratio everywhere, measured by the length of Sherlock’s forearm, organically imprinting itself on the room. The geometrical arrangement is impeccable. Mycroft wonders, as he steps over papyri depicting a Weighing of the Heart in the Hall of Two Truths among other scenes from Egyptian mythology, whether Sherlock intuitively places his scraps and papers, dirty cups and dishes, in proportion, or compulsively. Euclid would be moved, in either case.

And true, Mycroft himself is almost overcome by a tender reverence. This flat may be cramped and dank and dusty, but the space Sherlock has sculpted for himself appears to be an extension of himself, an effigy of his mind gallery with the materials at hand for anyone who knew how to look – his landlord and the occasional art fan seeking to buy one of Sherlock’s lesser works are certainly incapable, or else Sherlock’s display would not be this pronounced.

The centrepiece of the exhibition is, obviously, Sherlock himself, slapping his paintbrush against the canvas as though attempting to slice it. Paint flies from the tip of the bristles, every stroke rippling through the sheen of his silk shirt. Mycroft is pleased to see him this industrious, although his throat seizes at the force of it.

Sherlock is engrossed enough not to notice Mycroft approach, but then again, his brother never saw him as a threat. Still, Mycroft takes care to stand an arm’s length away from him – Sherlock might lash out if suddenly addressed, and Mycroft would hate to ruin a good suit. Suppressing the urge to card his fingers through his brother’s hair, he inspects the view.

Before him, on a surrealist background of trees melting into lakefronts and hills into roadways, a monochromatic Mona Lisa with bold black face paint reminiscent of la Santa Muerte sizes him up, herself dissolving in the flutters, curls and jagged edges of neon greens mixing with electric blues contrasting shocking pinks. The challenge his brother has projected onto her gaze tickles Mycroft’s amusement; it screams ‘Sherlock’ even from afar.

“Don’t you have working clothes for this sort of activity?” he asks, barely containing a sniff. He has no intentions, however, to breathe in his surroundings any deeper than need be.

His brother stiffens and jerks around, brush at the ready as though prepared to paint the trespasser to death. His eyes are strained when they find Mycroft’s, and his sunken face slackens as if to say _Oh, just you_. Only then does he look down. The front of his purple shirt is an abstract expressionist piece of paint blots and spatters in all colours, and Mycroft mourns the fabric. He quite likes the colour on his brother, even though it now is too stark a contrast to his papery skin. The arms peeking out of the rolled-up sleeves are coated with smudges that cover up parts of his tattoos and add new patterns. Sherlock once said the paint adds character to them, a different aspect depending on the smudges, that’s why he likes it on his skin – becoming his own canvas.

It’s still shocking to see his baby brother so bodily altered, with vibrant colours on his skin and metal studs through it. The worst part of the change is that Mycroft wasn't present to witness, and maybe prevent it. Mycroft knows once Sherlock sets his sights on something, diverting him is a futile undertaking, but he would rest easier knowing he had attempted everything he could to dissuade Sherlock.

Sherlock flicks his eyes up again and shrugs. “I do now.” As if to emphasise the statement – or better: to vex Mycroft – he wipes his hand on his trouser leg, smearing the oil paint on it. Turning around once more, he fumbles for a crumpled pack of cigarettes on the floor; it’s empty, having scattered its contents among Sherlock’s utensils.

Mycroft watches patiently as his brother fishes a clean cigarette from among his brush holder. He is not going to comment on this; they both know it bodes ill if Sherlock has picked up smoking again, but as long as it is only that...

Once he’s found a lighter, Sherlock settles back on his heels, angling his profile to Mycroft, and looks up somewhat startled, as if surprised to still find him there. “What do you want?” Sherlock asks, and takes a drag. Mycroft watches the ember glow, then wane. “I didn’t ask you here. Go away.”

"Can't I visit my dear brother to see how he's doing?”

Sherlock lets his gaze linger and the smoke curl out of his mouth. He has returned a mere three months ago, and hasn’t yet settled back into his London life again. Mycroft has no knowledge of what transpired in France to prompt Sherlock’s unannounced leave-taking, but he suspects it’s still gnawing at him. His brother naturally doesn’t talk about it, and Mycroft wouldn’t pry with words.

"Not without ulterior motive, no," he says, and this thumb leaves a turquoise stain above his upper lip.

"Mummy worries about you.” Mycroft smoothes a lock from his brother’s forehead, slides his fingers in among the curls. His hair is filthy, but Mycroft is rewarded with Sherlock’s acceptance of the gesture: his eyelids flutter shut and he ever so slightly leans into the touch. “She hasn't seen you once since you've come back."

And maybe that’s for the best. Mycroft can’t imagine her reaction to Sherlock’s appearance, and neither does he want to.

A low hum resonates within Sherlock, rising to a question. "So why hasn't she come instead of sending you?"

"Oh, I've sent myself. I have something for you."

Sherlock’s eyes crack open to slits and he slowly draws himself to his full height. He is gaunt and quivering slightly, more so than Mycroft remembers; his agitation must be feeding on him. Yet so far there is no indication of—

"What is it?" Sherlock asks.

Mycroft smiles, indenting the corners of his lips. He came here for a reason, and allowing his concern for his brother to affect him was not part of it. “Got your interest, didn’t I?”

“Just tell me,” Sherlock insists, stepping closer.

Mycroft’s gaze flicks down to the cigarette in Sherlock’s mouth, and the barbells below his lips. Sherlock’s greasy fingers blotted the top of the filter in citrus, green and earth brown prints.

“A job offer,” he says and clears his throat. He is not going to remind him of health hazards.

“Another?” Sherlock asks, and the pharyngeal fricative escaping him next carries all his sentiment on the matter. “You’ve been pestering me on and off with them ever since I got here. Back off,” is what Sherlock says, but Mycroft hears, _You act as if I cannot take care of myself._

 _Oh brother dear_ , he wants to answer. _Of course you can't. Not the way you are now._ "If you could accept one, I wouldn't have to." 

“Some jobs you suggested. They were all boring.”

Mycroft cups his brother’s jaw, runs his thumb along his lips and rubs off the distracting turquoise smudge, before tracing his chin, beneath the titanium studs piercing the skin on either side of it. “These will have to go, though.”

Sherlock’s eyelids that have begun drifting shut, snap open again. Instead of answering though, Sherlock blows smoke into his face. He may have intended this as a diversion tactic, but Mycroft can read his body language just fast enough to grip his shoulders as Sherlock’s teeth close over Mycroft’s lower lip.

Sherlock understands, and doesn’t touch him, lets himself be pushed off with a slight nudge.

“You should ‘back off,’ brother dear,” Mycroft says and worries the bitemark with his tongue, still grasping Sherlock’s shoulders. “The colours on your shirt haven't dried. I don't want you ruining my suit, too."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Live a little, Mycroft. It’s not as if you can’t afford a new suit or several.”

“Shopping isn’t on today’s agenda, though.”

“But harassing me is?”

“I wouldn’t put visiting you this drastically, but it can always be arranged, yes.”

“Insufferable as ever.” He frowns and puts out the cigarette in a water glass. “Fine,” he says, fingers scrabbling to unbutton his shirt, but their oily surface layer makes it hard for him to get a proper grip. Mycroft takes pity on him, and helps, popping each button at his own leisure and raking his eyes over his brother.

With every button he reveals more of that offending owl on Sherlock’s chest that glares at him every time, as if accusing him of something – seeing Sherlock in this state, perhaps? The piece is an unfinished souvenir from France, outlined only in confident black brush strokes similar to some of the images on his right arm, suggesting a falling-out with the original artist. Mycroft has learned not to glare back at it.

Sherlock’s eyes are stormcloud grey, and he cocks his head as if inviting, no, _expecting_ Mycroft to lean in for a kiss. Instead, Mycroft contents himself with tracing the bird’s spread wings, quelling his resentment, and focusing on the texture of the skin. Which, to his further displeasure, is rather grimy.

“Sherlock?” His voice is smooth, almost a caress, and Sherlock feels it.

“Hm?”

“When was the last time you had a shower?” he asks.

Sherlock looks puzzled. “What day is it?”

“Wednesday.”

“Wasn't yesterday alrea— _oh_. I may have had a wash three days ago...”

Mycroft crinkles his nose. He knows Sherlock to neglect his body’s needs, but personal hygiene? “Under the shower. Now.”

Sherlock groans. “Is that—”

“No arguments. Go.” Mycroft straightens his tie. “We can’t have you face a potential employer like this.”

“If you would tell me who it is, I might consider.”

“That would spoil the surprise, wouldn’t it?”

Sherlock makes a face. “I’m not fond of your _surprises_.”

Mycroft smirks. “You never were. Now, off you go, or need I drag you?”

“As if you could—” Registering Mycroft’s souring expression, Sherlock throws up his hands. “All right, I concede.” He turns for the bathroom, already divesting of the shirt. At the door, he throws a “join me, if you dare” over his shoulder.

Mycroft muses it’s less a question of daring, but more one of time constraints, as he checks his pocket watch. Although to be fair, Mycroft has seen this flat’s dingy little bathroom and it is _ghastly_. Mold in the corners and flaking paint is only at the top of the list. Still, he can’t let the invitation go unanswered. Unsupervised, Sherlock might only run the shower instead of using it just to spite him.

Upon entering the bathroom, Mycroft is greeted with a splendid view of Sherlock’s backside as bends over to shed his trousers. His skin has a blue tinge in the harsh artificial lights, almost translucent, like saturated paper. Mycroft reaches out to run his fingers down the ridges of Sherlock’s spine, feeling the muscles twitch at his touch. The skin is dry too, a testimony to Sherlock’s lifestyle.

Sherlock turns and looks at him through lowered lashes, catches Mycroft’s lower lip between his teeth again, dragging him closer to tub. Mycroft loosely encircles Sherlock's wrists to keep his fingers from the lapels of his jacket.

“You know,” Sherlock murmurs, nuzzling Mycroft’s jaw. “I wouldn’t be able to ruin your suit if you took it off.”

“I didn’t come here to join you,” Mycroft says and brings his brother’s left wrist to his lips, the unblemished one.

“Just to watch? Is that all? So boring, Mycroft. You’re losing your touch.”

Mycroft sinks his teeth around Sherlock’s radial pulse point and sucks. Sherlock hisses, head falling back, and his other hand scrambles for hold at Mycroft’s neck, fisting the small hairs at his nape. Smiling, Mycroft scrapes his incisors down the soft skin of Sherlock’s inner forearm to his brachial artery and revels in his brother’s reactions: stuttering out a moan, his whole body spasms, hips buck against Mycroft’s trouser legs involuntarily.

Sherlock’s sensitivity is utterly delightful and Mycroft wonders why he has never tried making his brother climax from just that.

“Mycroft, I want—” 

Ah yes, Sherlock’s lack of patience. “Save it for later,” he answers, twirls his brother around and claps him on his bottom. “There’s a shower waiting for you.”

“Fucking tease,” Sherlock grinds out, and steps into the tub. When he faces Mycroft again, a victorious grin spreads on his face. “Looks like you’ve no choice but to get in here with me,” he says and points to his neck.

Mycroft turns to inspect himself in the dusty mirror. A second later, water spits out of the showerhead. There are blue-green smudges at his neck and on his dress shirt, and Mycroft bites back a click of annoyance. Looks like Sherlock has won this round.

Sherlock is scrubbing his hands with a bar of soap, rivulets of green and blue and yellow run down his body when Mycroft joins him under the spray. Sherlock’s curls are losing their form, matting themselves against his forehead and cheekbones, and he’s looking somewhat lost like this, in need of guidance maybe, although Mycroft would never allow this thought to pass his lips, taking care to preserve Sherlock’s image of himself. Yet the aftermath of France has left him almost visibly shaken, struggling to find his direction again.

For now, he is content to let himself be pulled in before he can comment on the dreadful water pressure, and kisses his brother finally. Sherlock tastes of day-old coffee, mud and ashes, but those flavours are quickly overridden when the blade of tongue brushes the titanium bar inside Sherlock’s mouth. A tendril of lust tugs at him. His brother’s love for body modification is atrocious and repelling at best, but Mycroft can’t deny the eroticism of a pierced tongue.

He pulls away to bite Sherlock’s jaw, hard enough to mark but not to bruise, and Sherlock’s answering moan is just the right cadence to fan the fire in his loins. His fingers already trace Sherlock’s exposed skin as if given a life of their own, and Sherlock’s breath hitches when Mycroft’s thumb catches on his nipple piercing.

Sherlock is hard between them, glans flushed a carnal red around his ampallang, and rubbing against Mycroft’s stomach, but before Mycroft can lose himself in his own swelling desire, he blindly reaches for Sherlock’s shampoo bottle and uncaps it. A waft of lemon balm, rosemary and sage springs from it. Sherlock’s mouth demands his attention again, and he obliges, nipping Sherlock’s lips and licking his tongue against them. His fingers slide in among Sherlock’s hair, working the shampoo into the roots, massaging his scalp. Sherlock tips his head back out of the spray and groans deep in his chest. His hands slide over the wet curls on Mycroft’s chest, down over his waist and, bracing his foot against the edge of the tub, he pulls him flush between his legs.

“Mycroft...”

Unperturbed, Mycroft picks up the bar of soap that now has spots of colour on it from Sherlock’s use, and takes advantage of the position to slide it along Sherlock’s leg, beginning at the instep and moving over his hairless shin and thigh and between them, luxuriating in the twitches of his adductors. Lightly, he lathers the skin around his scrotum and the base of his erection, before bringing his hands around to glide between his buttocks.

Sherlock groans open-mouthed, then exhales against the droplets hitting his face. “Mycroft, I—”

Mycroft nuzzles his brother’s chest, feels his heavy heartbeat thud against his cheek while the spray of water drums against the back of his neck. “Hm?” he hums and flicks his tongue over Sherlock’s nipple. “What is it, brother dear?” he asks, and rubs his middle finger against Sherlock’s anus.

“This, yes,” Sherlock breathes out and pushes back against Mycroft’s digit. The tip of it slips inside easily and Sherlock’s fingers dig into Mycroft’s shoulders. “More, yes, that’s it. Touch me, Mycroft. Fuck me.”

Sherlock’s pleas stir something within Mycroft, but instead of answering them he merely curls his finger inside Sherlock to brush it against his prostate. Sherlock throws his head back hard against the tiles.

“Oh for God’s sake,” he gasps out, “don’t tell me you’re still afraid of hurting me.”

Sherlock nudges Mycroft’s unoccupied arm toward his erection, urging him to take him in hand. Mycroft lets the soap bar drop to to fist the base of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock’s own fingers curl on top of Mycroft’s, gliding up his length and back again, thumb and forefinger teasing his glans around the piercing.

Mycroft can only watch in fascination as Sherlock comes apart in front of him, droplets glistening on his lashes, the bow of his upper lip, his clavicle, quivering on the edge, before joining the rush downstream. Sherlock himself quivers around him, his peak slowly building in force, bending him backwards, before it crashes through him. His hand covering his erection spasms erratically and fails to catch every spurt of ejaculate. Some of it hits Mycroft’s thigh before the water swirls it down the drain.

Once Sherlock has squeezed out the last waves of his orgasm, he slides down the tiles and crumples in the tub. Mycroft takes the showerhead and washes away the remaining suds from Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock lets him, snorting only once when water enters his nose. His chest is heaving, but otherwise his tension is dissipating, his muscles relaxing.

Mycroft turns off the shower and climbs out of it, picking out two towels from the small cabinet in the corner. He throws one over Sherlock and uses the other.

Once he’s rubbed himself down, he throws on the dress shirt he will have to take to the dry cleaner’s right away. He pops up the collar and slips his tie around his neck, when Sherlock comes up behind him.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“What does it look like, brother mine?”

“We’re not done here.”

Mycroft smiles. “You are.”

“You’re not,” Sherlock points at Mycroft’s albeit flagging erection. He takes a deep breath. “And I’m done when I say I’m done.”

“Sherlock, I cannot be around all day. I have appointments to keep.”

“So? Cancel them.”

“Important appointments.”

Sherlock’s eyes crinkle and he sinks down to his knees. “Is there nothing that can pursuade you to stay?”

Sparks shoot up Mycroft’s spine as Sherlock’s fingers trace the veins on his shaft. Mycroft cards his own through Sherlock’s still-damp hair. “Certainly not an unruly brother.”

“And what if that unruly brother were to agree to a job interview?” Sherlock asks, nosing along the underside of Mycroft’s erection.

Well, he has to agree he would be loathe to leave this pretty sight. Mycroft sighs. The things he sacrifices for his brother. “Hand me my phone, then.”

Sherlock looks like the proverbial cat that got the cream, and would likely have leapt up like one if he weren’t still so pleasantly exhausted. He fishes out the mobile device with practiced ease and hands it to Mycroft, before settling back on his knees in front of him.

Mycroft arches an eyebrow at him as he speed-dials his office. Sherlock returns a smirk that he presses against Mycroft’s length.

The line clicks and his PA answers. “Sir?”

“Anthea?” Mycroft’s voice is perfectly neutral, despite the searing tongue that is currently lapping at him. Before Sherlock can wrap his mouth around him, Mycroft fists his hair to keep him in place. “Be a dear and put off all of today’s appointments by an hour.”

Sherlock glares up at him, tears glistening in the corners of his eyes, but then his expression changes to amusement. He works his lips around Mycroft’s erection, and every bit of suction adds an extra layer of strain to his voice.

“Are you certain? The envoy from Saudi-Arabia—”

“Yes, I am. We will have to reschedule if today doesn’t work for him.”

Mycroft now has to keep himself from sliding into his brother’s scorching mouth, because the attention and the _look_ Sherlock bestows upon him is positively filthy, and Mycroft wants nothing more than to use his throat and feel the nub of his tongue piercing dig into the underside of his prick.

“Certainly, sir. Any message you want me to convey?”

Sherlock has begun humming now, and Mycroft would like to smack him for being a tease at the worst possible moments. He wedges his mobile phone between his ear and shoulder and uses his free hand to pinch Sherlock’s nose, cutting off his air supply.

“If anyone inquires, you can let them know some, ah, pressing matters have come up, demanding my immediate attention.”

Sherlock eyes widen, then narrow at him again, and now it’s Mycroft’s turn to light up with amusement. That is, until Sherlock swallows around him and pulls back somewhat, scraping his teeth against him, before being content to merely _breathe_ on him and every puff on his slick skin is as arousing as any touch.

“As you say.” Mycroft is not certain whether the faint amusement in her voice was real or imagined. “Anything else, sir?”

“That will be all. Thank you.”

He lets go of Sherlock’s hair the moment the line disconnects, and of his nose a moment later. Sherlock uses this chance to stroke Mycroft’s length with both his tongue and fingers, and Mycroft is a little impressed that Sherlock hasn’t used them before. He can be quite the well-behaved tease. Going by the state of his own growing arousal, that little game must have rather excited Sherlock, too. Interesting.

Mycroft places his phone on top of the cracked sink and strokes Sherlock’s head, brushing the damp curls from his temples. “Satisfied now? I gave you an hour.”

Sherlock hums around him again, and Mycroft can finally allow himself to feel it. The pleasure tingles along his spine and sends waves of heat washing through him. 

Sherlock’s fingers travel up and down his thighs, massaging them and stirring the hairs they find there. Mycroft relaxes into the touch. That is, until Sherlock slides down his entire length, and he can feel himself nudging, _breaching_ the muscles at the back of his throat.

“Christ, Sherlock, what are you—” and he doesn’t get any further, because a full-throated moan takes over, and he nearly doubles over at the intensity of the feeling.

Sherlock’s throat contricts around him, and Mycroft might be forgetting to breathe – a sentiment Sherlock is certainly sharing right now, because he comes up gasping, before sliding down Mycroft’s slick erection again, and Mycroft would have liked to tell him to take it slow, but his speech tract seems to no longer be functioning the way he’s used to. Instead, what comes out is mixture of puffy breaths and “oh, Sherlock”s. It’s only during times like these that Mycroft can appreciate the ruthlessness with which his brother abuses his own body.

And instead of telling him to stop, Mycroft’s hands dig into his throat and the back of his head, holding him there, pressing him harder against himself, and not even moving. He releases Sherlock when the press of his teeth is growing too painful to bear and he allows Sherlock a few wet gulps of air, before forcing him down on his length. Sherlock's face is a garish red, and tears are threatening to fall from his wide eyes, but he doesn’t struggle any more than is natural in such a position. His body convulses, but Sherlock grips Mycroft’s thighs tighter, bracing himself.

“Damn, Sherlock. Oh, Hell, you...”

Mycroft pulls back out a little, only to allow Sherlock to breathe, but continues sliding inside his mouth, his entire length spit-slick, and Sherlock more than pliable to take him. He clasps Sherlock’s throat again, listening to him wheeze and struggle not to cough. The pressure forces Sherlock’s tongue harder against his prick and hot pleasure shudders through Mycroft every time that metal knob on Sherlock’s tongue bumps over his pulsing artery.

Releasing Sherlock again, his fingers brush back the slick hair at his temples and trace the shell of his ears, earning him a soft hitch of breath from Sherlock, before he grabs hold of them to guide Sherlock down again. His brother jerks, but follows, eyes clouded when he looks up, and oh, observing Sherlock observe him is almost too much to bear.

Mycroft slides up to the base into Sherlock’s mouth, pushing the head of his prick into his throat and withdrawing again, first slow, then picking up speed, over and over, until Sherlock couldn’t help but gag around him. Overcome with fierce hunger, Mycroft pulls out then and, dropping to his knees in front of Sherlock, kisses his brother, with lips and teeth and tongue, as if trying to consume him.

Still dazed, Sherlock doesn’t immediately recognise what is happening, but his tongue pushes back and his arms grasp Mycroft’s shoulders instinctively, bunching the fabric of his still unbuttoned dress shirt. When coughs start to wrack Sherlock’s frame, Mycroft’s teeth nip a trail over Sherlock’s salty cheekbone to his ear, where even the faintest graze has Sherlock bucking up against him.

Mycroft crushes his brother to his chest and bites down hard on his trapezoid muscle. Sherlock keens, and rakes his nails down the back of Mycroft’s shirt, gasps in shallow breaths. Mycroft could have devoured him then, ingested every hair, every molecule, because these cages of skin, muscle and bone will forever isolate them, and bar the communion of their minds.

The thought staggers Mycroft with its intensity, and he lets go as though electrocuted. Scrubbing his hands over his tingling face, he tries to collect himself again, layer by layer.

Without his brother’s support, Sherlock slumps backwards, chest heaving rapidly and constricting with the occasional cough. His splaying knees display an erection that juts against his belly, glistening with pre-ejaculate. The wanton image drives another spike of desire into Mycroft’s gut that he has to suppress, lest he take his brother then and there.

Gradually, the gulps of air warp into bursts of laughter and soon Sherlock is shaking with mirth.

Mycroft frowns at his brother as he drags himself to his feet. The source of Sherlock’s amusement divert his attention from his painfully throbbing erection.

Still quivering, Sherlock wipes tears from his face and falls back against the tub. “Oh,” he rasps, hoarse from the maltreatment of his throat, “I love it when you curse for me.” He takes another shuddering breath. “Why did you stop though? It was just beginning to grow interesting.”

“I was led to believe you might like a breather,” Mycroft says, and clears his throat because Sherlock can’t.

“This?” Sherlock points to his laryngeal prominence. “Better than smoking. Although smoking now might trump even this... Except,” he snaps forward and wheezes, “can’t breathe.”

Mycroft shakes his head in disbelief. “A change of location would be advisable. There’s no proper steam outlet in here.”

Sherlock nods, numb and bleary-eyed, and struggles to his feet. Unsteady as they are, he reels against Mycroft on his first step forward, burning against his chest.

“Remember you’re not going yet,” he croaks, and crowds Mycroft against the door. “You can’t. We have an arrangement.” Digging his fingers into Mycroft’s soft shoulders, he cants his hips to rub his erection against Mycroft’s. His brow furrows in concentration, entirely focused on the sensation.

“I wouldn't dream of it.” Mycroft’s eyelids flutter as he grabs his brother’s arse, tugs him closer for more friction.

“Good,” Sherlock breathes and slowly extricates himself, unhurried despite the raw need in his voice. “Come on then.” He pulls Mycroft after him by the wrist. Outside the bathroom, the air wafts against his still-wet prick like a cool caress.

Sherlock leads them into his bedroom, a cramped affair of papers piled on sketchbooks piled on cardboard boxes. Mycroft spies half-finished sketches: the muscles of a human hand, the diagram of a heart similar to the one on Sherlock’s shoulder, the dexter portion of a rabbit divided along its median plane. A potted plant adorns the window, withered and curling in on itself as to be unrecognisable. A human skull rests on a shelf next to its own mandible and some of Sherlock’s art supplies. Mycroft’s nose wrinkles at the smell of nicotine and fixatives in the stale air.

His bed is made, apparently not having seen use during the past day or two. Sherlock throws back the covers and crawls on top of it, mattress dipping under his weight. The skin of his back gleams with the light filtering through the dirty window.

“Stay like this,” Mycroft says before he has a chance to think it over. Sherlock’s backside is driving him to distraction. “On your hands and knees.”

Sherlock stills. Anticipation jitters through him, but impatience makes him say, “If you want me not to move, you better not just stand there admiring the view.”

“Someone’s overeager,” Mycroft tuts, finally back in control, and inches closer, running his fingertips up Sherlock's thighs. “I could truss you like rolled roast to restrict your movement; would you like that better?”

“God,” Sherlock groans. “As long as you’d fuck me right after.”

Mycroft chuckles, a low rumble that vibrates against Sherlock’s skin. Wedging his erection in the cleft of Sherlock’s arse, he lets his hands revere Sherlock’s unmarked back, sliding up it on either side of his spine, tracing the twitching muscles, and slowly follows, draping himself over Sherlock until his mouth presses against Sherlock’s curls, just behind his ear.

“You know,” Mycroft puffs out and Sherlock shivers. “I would keep you on the edge for hours, and you couldn't do a thing about it. I could take you at my leisure, like this,” he moves his hips against Sherlock, shallow thrusts rubbing his length against Sherlock’s arse, utterly unsatisfying, but the frustrated whine from Sherlock is worth it. “I could mark every inch of your skin,” he continues, and licks the shell of Sherlock’s ear.

“L-liar,” Sherlock gasps out. “You’d leave me over a lunch date with one of your diplomat friends.”

“Am I leaving you over a lunch date now, darling brother?” He leans down to sink his teeth into the sensitive skin at Sherlock’s nape and runs his fingers down the soft insides of Sherlock’s arms, earning him another moan.

“Only because I begged you not to.”

“Strange, I was under the impression you were blackmailing me.”

Disregarding Sherlock’s insistent body language, Mycroft’s hands travel down Sherlock’s sides, down his hips and thighs and up again.

“Strange to think, _hah_ , the great Mycroft Holmes would let himself be blackmailed.”

“I _could_ have you disposed of,” he says and nips the skin between Sherlock’s scapulae, “but who would send me mocking caricatures of the people that annoy him?”

Quivering, Sherlock bites back a whine. “You—you actually look at them?”

“They’re quite entertaining.”

“You wouldn't say that if I sent you your likenesses.”

“No, probably not.”

Mycroft slowly draws himself back up, while pressing Sherlock down into the mattress and the pillow. 

“Hands,” Mycroft says, and Sherlock complies. He tries to settle in a comfortable position, balancing his weight between his knees and his neck and shoulders, before crossing his arms behind his back. After a quick scan for anything usable in the room, Mycroft slips his tie from around his neck and winds it around Sherlock’s arms. The position puts a strain on Sherlock’s chest; his breaths are rasping and shallow.

Admiring the view, Mycroft rubs himself against Sherlock again, circling his entrance with the head of his prick, smearing it with pre-ejaculate. Sherlock’s groan is _obscene_ when he nudges the tip inside.

“Oh God, fuck, _finally_ ,” Sherlock sputters against the pillow.

Mycroft withdraws, only to breach him again, and again. The thumb of his free hand traces circles across Sherlock’s iliac crest and kneads the flesh beneath.

When he slides in his thumb instead of his prick, Sherlock whines. “What are you doing?”

Leaning down, Mycroft nips at Sherlock’s rump, tracing the ring of muscles around his thumb with his tongue and teeth.

“Oh God, Mycroft,” Sherlock grinds out.

His hips buck involuntarily when Mycroft spreads his arse to slide his tongue inside. From there, he lets it trail down Sherlock’s perineum and further to his testicles, as he presses his other thumb inside. They massage him lightly, sliding forward and back by turns, while Mycroft gently sucks on the wrinkled skin of Sherlock’s scrotum.

Sherlock whines, and his hips are trembling from the effort of keeping still. His breaths are coming short and desperate. Mycroft shouldn't drag this out too long, that would be cruel.

And yet, sometimes Mycroft enjoys just that.

His tongue travels upwards again, thumbs stretching Sherlock apart, whose fingers are flexing and testing the bonds. Mycroft lets his tongue slide in between his digits, laving Sherlock’s entrance.

“Ah, Mycroft, _fuck_... fuck me already.”

But Mycroft continues sliding his tongue inside, and pressing the teeth against the muscles. Sherlock’s hips are trembling like a bowstring and he’s pushing back against Mycroft, craving more.

Mycroft licks a trail up the backside of his pelvis then and aligns his erection between Sherlock’s buttocks again, sliding sweetly over his entrance.

“What did you say? I can’t understand you when you mumble against the pillow.”

Sherlock curses at him, and curses again when Mycroft’s fingers curl loosely around his shaft. He is slick, pre-come dripping from his length to pool on the sheets. Mycroft strokes him slowly, reveling in every twitch, and teases the piercing that penetrates Sherlock’s glans. Sherlock’s hips snap forward, seeking more friction.

“Ah, fuck,” Sherlock’s cussing grows more incoherent as time passes and it’s music to Mycroft’s ears.

He releases Sherlock to touch his own erection, mixing Sherlock’s pre-ejaculate with his own and lubricating himself with it. Like before, he only nudges the head inside, although it’s harder to control himself now. He _wants_ to sink down into Sherlock, needs it, can’t wait for Sherlock to beg him any longer. 

“Oh God, Mycroft, please, stop teasing me, I can’t—”

Sherlock cries out when Mycroft finally pushes all the way inside. His back arcs for a better angle, trying to drive Mycroft deeper and it’s becoming too much. Mycroft’s head falls back with a deep-seated groan and his control shatters. His body takes over, beginning with shallow thrusts and building his pace, without finesse, drawing out further before snapping back.

Sherlock has gone silent beneath him, choking on his own moans, but still presses back against every shove, chasing that urgent pull inside that compels them toward it.

Mycroft drives into Sherlock hard and fast, skin slapping, tingling, burning up, and he fists Sherlock’s jutting erection when he feels his own desire slowly cresting, twisting through him. Sherlock clenches around him and comes with a strangled cry, spattering Mycroft’s hand, his own belly and the sheets. After another firm push, Mycroft pulses out into Sherlock, riding out the last waves as they crash through them.

Beneath him, Sherlock is gasping for air, which is hard to come by in the close room. Drawing a shuddering breath, Mycroft unravels Sherlock’s makeshift bindings and wipes the sweat from his brows. 

Sherlock’s arms fall bonelessly to the mattress. He tries to push himself up, even though feeling hasn't yet fully returned to them. Mycroft gathers his strength and pulls Sherlock up against him. Sherlock’s head lolls against his shoulder and his desperate intakes of breath slice the air.

Mycroft settles him down on the mattress, and moves to the window on shaky legs. The boxes in the corner allow him to open it only a crack, but it’s better than nothing. He sits down beside Sherlock, stroking his hair and refraining from kissing his temple.

After a moment, Sherlock curls his fingers around Mycroft’s wrist and drags it toward his mouth. There, he closes his teeth around the meat of his sweaty palm, breathing heavily against it. Then his hand drops away again, exhausted.

He mutters something, but Mycroft cannot understand him.

“It’s okay. Sleep, Sherlock,” he says and tries to make him more comfortable. Maybe he could find some rest now. He throws a blanket over his brother and turns the drool-stained pillow over.

Thinking he could use yet another shower, Mycroft heads toward the bathroom for a quick wash and something to clean Sherlock with. With his rumpled dress shirt and paint-spotted jacket, he won’t look very presentable, but it will have to suffice until he reaches his own lodgings. Perhaps he should hide a spare suit in his brother’s flat, somewhere Sherlock won’t find it. If he did, he might set it on fire or use it as a canvas when he runs out of surfaces to paint on.

In the bathroom, Mycroft bends to pick up his trousers from the toilet seat and groans when he straightens again. He isn't as spry as he used to be.

Spots dance across his vision and Mycroft sways against the sink to steady himself, dropping his clothes and knocking over the bin next to the toilet seat in the process. Really, he would have to dismantle the window frames and force airing onto his brother. The vapours in this flat are toxic.

Gathering his clothes again, his eyes zoom onto something that makes his stomach drop: small plastic bags with white powder residue and a used syringue.

Mycroft grows cold. How could he not have seen this? He practically inspected every inch of Sherlock’s bare arm (and most of the rest of his body, too). Unless... Sherlock must have used his other arm, the tattoos camouflaging the injection site.

Was he too late again?

“Oh, Sherlock.” _What have you done?_


	2. slowly bring me back to life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many, _many_ thanks to my beta and lifeline Neurotoxia for indulging my need for excessive handholding (and, well, _everything_ ). Where would I be without you? Probably hugging myself in a very soft room. :)

Don't mean to freak you out  
But the doubt is over  
And everything is changing ways

—Abandoned Pools, "9 Billion"

Sherlock wakes up with a crick in his neck. His throat is sore. Tries to clear it, but lacks control of vocal tract. Something rides against his tongue, grates his teeth – did he break one?

Shifts minutely. Sudden sensory awareness. Bright sparks of pain. Groans.

The room is colder than he remembers. Slight breeze. Open window. 

_Mycroft_. 

Obviously. The whiff of cologne permeating the air is unmistakable. Opulent, despite its faintness. Sandalwood, jasmine, lavender. Somewhat oriental, reminiscent of Asian barber shops during the colonial era. Indian. Bengali. Nepalese.

Deft hands scraping off shaving foam, female hands glowing golden, straight razor so close to the throat.

Sherlock makes a face. The thought offends.

Dove grey filtering through eyelids. Brightening, or darkening. Same day still, or already the next? Sherlock is losing track, of time and other arbitrary divisions. He didn't notice falling or being asleep, just breathing, deep lungfuls of air, meditative, cleansing.

 _Inside my brain a dull tom-tom begins_  
_Absurdly hammering a prelude of its own._

Sherlock struggles upright. Escapes the stripping-down of canvas. Layers of paint are flaking. Useless, long-forgotten word sequences resurface. Coating them over was a mistake. He'll have to throw them out with the garbage.

He feels _sore,_ thoroughly used, but strangely content, irritable fragments of memory notwithstanding. His mind is in a quiet buzz, for once not attacking him with virulent splashes of colour of whatever his eyes touch upon. The world has muted down to pastels.

What's more, the beginning of an idea throbs at the base of his skull. Ecstatic, he can't grab pencil and paper fast enough, chasing the feeling in sketchy strokes. His wrist skids over the surface. The outlines blur. Inconsequential. 

He's elated while it lasts. Floating. Barely breathing. Living in the _scritch-scritch_ of the moment.

This is what he's been waiting for.

The idea's shadow exhausts itself quickly enough, leaving Sherlock to capture a few quick impressions from earlier: pain – gunmetal grey (flat of the pencil) and switchblade silver (tip of the pencil) – in different areas of his body; the tingle of pleasure lingering in shades of plum and byzantium purple, the mind set aright within its confines, even while the confines have shifted out of order. Himself, bent down, tied up, split open. He groans just to remember. 

There's poetry in the lines; even Mycroft could excuse their crudeness for that.

Sherlock leaves the sketch in favour of heading to the bathroom. He relieves himself, then spits out the intrusion in his mouth. He catches a wet glint before the ball of his tongue piercing circles down the drain. No matter. He's not hungry yet. As long as he doesn't eat until he's found a spare, it should be fine.

His throat itches. He clears it (managing it this time), croaks a scale in G major. 27 per cent loss of vocal range, especially affecting the back consonants. Swallowing hurts, but is manageable. (The barbell's rough edge already irritates his hard palate.)

Worth the effect it had, though. Stripping Mycroft of his self-control is a favourite pastime of Sherlock's. He so rarely gets the chance to, even now without a Channel to cross beforehand.

He's in dire need of a shower, but instinct drags him to the kitchen. There had been a click, like that of an electric kettle, which Sherlock has not bothered to register until now, what with the flurry of impressions occupying his senses. He would have to block them out one by one to be able to focus on the important details once more.

The kitchen, then. A throne room of abandoned art projects. Among them, superficially unruffled, sits Mycroft. Regal like the Queen. Sipping tea. (New suit, navy blue, not the one he wore yesterday.)

Sherlock cants his hips. An impression of Michelangelo's David.

"Here for seconds?" Sherlock asks in tones promising a continuation of their previous encounter. Feels vague stirrings of lust beneath the blanket of pain: bright, white, and thin against the mottled grey in his muscles.

Mycroft's expression sours enough to rival the taste of a lemon. Sherlock wants to bite into it, lick it off him, taste it. Application of teeth, lips, tongue. Muscle memory. Like walking, or breathing.

"Do not mock me, Sherlock."

Cold voice. Iced over. (Alice blue.) 

Oh.

Confusion. (Clouds of anthracite and purple.) 

Why is Mycroft angry?

"How long?" Mycroft continues.

Sherlock blinks. It's not often that he doesn't understand, but when it happens it either involves Mycroft or needy people he doesn't care about. With Mycroft, it feels like an extended dialogue they've been having since before they've grown up (although Mycroft maintains Sherlock still hasn't), a conversation made up of gaps and pauses, cryptic messages, re-routed signs, because half the time Sherlock's got better things to do than sit and listen.

"How long have you been using again?"

The swirl of colours vanishes.

Ah.

Deep breath. 

"Why are you here?" he asks.

"I should think I have made my objective abundantly clear."

"Are you here to lecture me again?"

"Answer my question, Sherlock."

Sherlock advances. A bit stiffly. Movements not as graceful as usual. Seductive enough. Will have to suffice for the old sod.

Mycroft sets down his cup. (Clink, not rattle.) Uncrosses his legs. (So composed.) Steeples his fingers. (Buttoned-up. Restrained.)

( _Restrain me,_ he said so often, when he thought, _Don't put a leash on me. I know you want to, but can't. I won't let you._ )

( _None of you._ )

Sherlock kneels in front of Mycroft. Inhales the autumn-sharp freshness clinging to his suit. Palms up his trouser legs. Admires the creases in his shirt, the pearly sheen of the buttons. Like soap bubbles in an ocean of cloth. There are creases around his eyes, too. Storm cloud grey, his face. Unhealthy. (Worry. Displeasure.)

Sherlock parts his lips. Then Mycroft's legs. Invitation. Promise.

Mycroft hates intimacy. Makes him vulnerable. Kisses his wife in public, but wouldn't kiss Sherlock. (Not that Sherlock wants the same treatment. Sentiment. It's poison. ~~Never again.~~ ) Yet he allows Sherlock in, so close. Like the straight razor to the throat. Dangerous, but necessary. Doesn't touch him, though. Unless he has to. Unless they're fucking. Unless he runs his fingers over Sherlock's ears, into his hair, down his—

Mycroft's hand in his hair. Encouragement? Affection, after all? A warm shower of stardust yellow on his scalp, down his back, to the soles of his feet. Outglowing the ache in his muscles.

_Yes._

He craves this. 

Then pain. Sharp and flashing. Tight-fisted like a white dwarf, but brighter than a hypernova. His shoulders tense as though the grip on his hair was pulling at the skin of his entire body.

Sherlock looks up. A mere flicker of the eyes. Can't move his head. Held in place.

It's enough. Mycroft's expression is a rictus of disgust and disappointment. Invitation rescinded. No, never issued in the first place. A nasty, sickly greenish-yellow feeling pricks through him.

Miscalculation.

"Do not make me repeat myself, Sherlock."

The pain on his scalp dulls from white to orange. Sherlock huffs. Slaps Mycroft's hand away and pushes himself away from his legs. The nerve.

"Fine," he rasps. "I haven't been using, Mycroft."

Mycroft laces his fingers together in his lap. The picture of a man at leisure. "What about the utensils I found in your bathroom?"

Sherlock tenses. He's been so busy chasing formless ideas that he forgot to dispose of anything incriminating before Mycroft could show his ugly mug around the flat and start sniffing about.

"Don't you think the evidence was too conspicuously placed?" he asks in a vain attempt to throw off Mycroft.

"Surely you're not implying you were counting on me to stumble upon them."

"Why not?"

"Don't be preposterous, Sherlock. To what end?"

"The usual? Riling you up?"

"This is low even for you, Sherlock." Barely concealed anger. "I cannot condone this kind of behaviour."

Here they go again. Sherlock will never hear the end of it, because Mycroft will never understand the need – the necessity – to create, how vital it is for Sherlock's sanity. If drugs help where all else fails, why should it be deplorable to make use of them? It's no different from taking analgesics to numb pain. It has a purpose. Saturating or desaturating, shifting in or out of focus. Mycroft cannot see this because he does not have the right angle, his mind works precise and orderly, it's not obstructed by overlapping arrays of colours, some of which clash, some of which complement each other. It's distracting.

Like Mycroft is distracting. Sherlock cannot be having this conversation right now.

"And I cannot condone your presence in my flat if you insist on being a bother."

"Sherlock." Midnight blue tipped with white, like the frothing sea.

"I mean it. I don't want you around if all you do is treat me like a junkie."

"I am trying to help you, Sherlock."

"By telling me what an idiot I am for not falling in line with your demands. Very helpful indeed."

Mycroft's brows knit, emphasising the furrows that are carving a pattern onto his forehead. Sherlock wants to measure their depth and length, extrapolating their shape and size in ten years' time. "Don't be a fool, Sherlock. I cannot force you into a rehabilitation programme, but I can offer you alternatives. If you would just try them."

"They're not working." Sherlock doesn't need Mycroft's alternatives, his approval, _or_ his help. It comes with strings attached, like everything Mycroft does. Should have seen it. Instead of relying on lust to deter his brother. A piece of chocolate fudge cake would have been more reliable.

"About my earlier job proposal. I am certain you could benefit—"

"Have you not been listening? Your proposals aren't helping. _You_ aren't helping. With your constant nagging and monitoring and 'well-intentioned advice.' I am _sick_ of you telling me what I can and cannot do. I am not your _wife._ "

Mycroft's eyes narrow. Tactical error. Should not have brought up the wife. "Victoria is not the issue. She has done nothing to earn your disdain."

"She married you." Always ends up as a debate on principles. "You married her."

__"I would have elaborated the reasons behind this arrangement for you years ago, had you been willing to listen."_ _

__Sherlock hates her – hates the idea of her in Mycroft's life. No amount of reasoning could explain to Sherlock why his brother would bind himself in something so banal as marriage when the concept itself holds no meaning for him. (Therein lies their difference. Where Sherlock focusses on the unraveling of semantics, Mycroft negotiates within pragmatics. Speech acts are mere symbols, they draw their power from context, by themselves they change nothing. _I do pronounce you man and wife._ What changes?)_ _

__(Indeed, what is change? This union hasn't physically altered the universe. It is has not caused the furrows on Mycroft's brows. And yet it has altered something. On the surface, a shift in family ties, alliances, loyalties. Just below, tensions. They tremble in the reddish brown of dried blood. She is a presence in Mycroft's life, but a non-issue. Bribe material, perhaps. Someone to come home to, if he's being sentimental.)_ _

__(An ally.)_ _

__(Reciprocity. It's what irks Sherlock most about the arrangement. It has not been forced upon Mycroft. He _chose_ it. As did she.)_ _

__"However," Mycroft stands, "I have not come here to talk about my married life with you."_ _

__"Of course not." Sherlock glares. Mycroft maintains his distance. Would not touch him for the remainder of his visit. (Or indeed until Sherlock's drug screens come back negative.) There are parts of him he does not share with Sherlock, and yet he demands Sherlock become translucent for his inspection. "Let's just talk about mine instead. Why, I'm still married to my work, thank you for asking, and as it happens, you're intruding."_ _

__Mycroft's gaze drifts to Sherlock's chest, to the healed but as yet unfinished piece there. "Your work, you say? No longer one Mr Trevor with whom you have been so intimately acquainted until your sudden departure from Paris? How is he, I wonder?"_ _

__"Still none of your concern, Mycroft." Sherlock's voice grates his throat like a piece of shrapnel. Why bring him up? Why light the corner Sherlock has diligently bricked in, covered up, painted over? The site hasn't dried yet, evidence is still visible. _Translucent._ Heat rises like a cloud of dust, arid and suffocating._ _

__"He became my concern when he consorted with you."_ _

__Plaster crackles._ _

__"Since he's not _consorting_ with me right now, you can drop the subject."_ _

__Mycroft's jaw tenses, blocking the questions burning on his tongue. "You've always had a penchant for surrounding yourself with unsavoury elements. I wouldn't be surprised if you had already found someone as repulsive to replace him."_ _

Years of dealing with Mycroft's pronounced dislike of Victor do not soften this particular barb. Its sting is sulphuric and hot. His brother believes Victor is to blame for Sherlock's supposed relapse, possibly even supplied Sherlock with what he needed. (The irony. No one had been more against drug use than Victor. Not even Mycroft. The difference lies in how they spoke to Sherlock about it.)

__His patience snaps not with the exploding force of an entire city block, but with a compressed crinkle, sharp and biting._ _

__"Get out of my flat."_ _

__"Sherlock."_ _

__"No. You've said enough. Leave."_ _

__Mycroft draws himself up like a slighted pheasant, peering down his nose at Sherlock. His mouth adds nothing of consequence except for a show of hesitation Sherlock can do without._ _

__The door clicks behind Mycroft like icicles plinking on steel. The chill is almost palpable, despite the fever in his bones. Sherlock exhales slowly, and his entire body shudders. He watches the golden dust motes dance in front of him, obscuring the room like an overexposed photograph._ _

__Sherlock, too, feels overexposed under Mycroft's scrutiny, robbed of his distinctive features, his distinctive flaws. The signs of time. Mycroft sees in him a version of his baby brother he needs to protect from the external forces corrupting him. Sherlock himself is incapable of self-destruction, it's the world around him that drags him down, none of it is choice._ _

__Hence, Victor as the villain who is to blame for everything: Sherlock's choice of profession and the accompanying body modifications, his prolonged absence from Mycroft, his sudden breathless reemergence in London. As if Sherlock were not action, but reaction._ _

__So many excuses, made with Sherlock's best interests at heart, made at his expense. Because Sherlock has not grown up yet, because Sherlock cannot tell what's right, because Sherlock cannot choose for himself._ _

__Sherlock's fist destroys his labour of the past two days with an angry squelch. No matter. It was atrocious, anyway. He uncurls his fingers, presses his palm into the oil paint, feeling its texture. It's cool and thick and wet, giving easily as Sherlock smudges the colours faster and faster. working himself into a frenzy, as if intending to create an impression from the chaos of blurred lines._ _

__He's breathing hard, the turpentine vapour makes his head spin, and both palms slip across the canvas in an attempt to steady him. He can no longer feel the individual parts of his body, he's a mass of a dull red _ache_ centering in his chest, just below his manubrium. It's pulling him tight, so tight he's unable to growl as he rips the frame from the easel, breaks it over his knee, reduces it to kindling and a wasted canvas._ _

__Sherlock wipes his hands against his thighs, his hips, his stomach. The colours do not vanish, they multiply as though bruising his skin. Indigo, lime green, and purple, mixing together to a formless brown. He brushes at the stains to rub them off, succeeding only in coating more of his skin._ _

__On the floor behind the easel he finds a bottle of baby oil, also flecked with colour, which he struggles to open. He works the oil into his arms and legs, tottering into the bathroom. He leaves new palmprints as he catches himself on the sink, trying to breathe deeply and keep himself upright. His breath is more quick than deep. Soaping up his hands and scrubbing them over his body, he bites his tongue in concentration. Something digs into his palate. He scrapes his teeth over the appendage. A metal bar clicks against his lower incisors and slips out of his mouth before Sherlock remembers it's his tongue piercing._ _

__Foam bubbles under the hissing tap, and torrents of saturated water swirl down the drain. Sherlock scrubs and scrubs until his left arm is raw but clean, scrubs over his shoulder to his chest. Colour runs down his stomach in rivulets. Dirty brown water puddles on the floor beneath his feet and Sherlock almost slips more than once in his haste to get the paint off._ _

__He scrubs and scrubs, but no matter how much force he applies, no matter what material he uses to rub, the strokes on his sternum will not go away. He feels a sudden chill from the flat._ _

__The crude brushstrokes outline a barn owl with spread wings. Permanent, but incomplete. Like his memories of Victor._ _

__Sherlock doubles over the sink, dry heaving. He coughs and coughs, gasps for breath, and gags again. Despite its wings the image is now far too heavy, depressing his chest and lungs, squeezing his ribcage, until he thinks it might snap inward, and no amount of hyperventilating can steady its structure._ _

__Bent over, Sherlock watches murky runnels carve lines down his legs until they merge into the pool at his feet. Sherlock can sweep up this mess without much damage to the tiles, but unlike the mess Victor left both on his body and in his mind gallery._ _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! As always, comments are love.
> 
> ETA: [haldoor](http://archiveofourown.org/users/haldoor) created [a banner ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/haldoor/7258823/462041/462041_original.jpg) for my finishing this. :D


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